


A republic on the beach

by Ibbyliv



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Bonfires, F/M, Holiday, M/M, Multi, Sea, Sharing Rooms, Summer, Vacation in Greece
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-12 08:48:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2103093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/pseuds/Ibbyliv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This is tyranny!” Enjolras growls, glaring them all, the complete picture of righteous fury. “No one cared for our consent, this is against the chart of human rights, this is obscene!”</p><p>“Actually, the whole process flowed pretty democratically, Enjolras,” Combeferre tiredly raises his eyes from his book. "We all came together and discussed with whom it would be more convenient to cohabitate with for a week, considering romantic dynamics or lack thereof, sleeping habits, and potential of amelioration in a relationship. You just downright refused to participate in our plans, declaring that the people didn’t martyr themselves for our right to go to the beach.”<br/>*<br/>Les Amis are going on vacation, and Enjolras is <em>so</em> not sharing a hotel room with Grantaire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A republic on the beach

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Screamingpoet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Screamingpoet/gifts).



> So I'm on holiday at my island, Naxos, and I should probably be doing something decent with my life but all I do is sleep and eat and occasionally swim like a puppy. I have to admit that I needed this resting period after my exams soooo badly, I was practically knackered but now I love it. I mean, I could be doing stuff with my life, like writing a decent fic or reading one of the 24601 books on my list, but instead all I want to write is effortless dialogues and excessive smooching with unrealistic jumps into the plot (or lack of) and no character development whatsoever but uh, I guess I shouldn't be too harsh on myself anymore, I've stressed out enough over silly stuff already and I've done a lot to actually deserve this holiday. So ahem, the whole Amis-go-to-a-Greek-island-and-are-totally-lazy is definitely not a self-imposed concept, nope, not at all. Also there are like, a thousand typos, because I had to go eat meat and fish and stuff at a tavern with the family so no time to correct it yet sorry!
> 
> Dedicated to my beloved Princess, Screamingpoet, because my internet connection is shit for Skype and I literally can't live without her (also if she was here we'd totally get inflatable unicorns and conquer the island but alone I'm weak and sleepy).
> 
> The title is from Vampire Weekend's 'Holiday'.
> 
> I hope you're all resting enough and having a wonderful time, thank you so much for taking the time to read my shit! You all literally give me life! *combeglare for word misuse* Opinions and constructive criticism are always more than welcome!

“So let’s take it one more time, slowly, and with no panic.” No but there _is_ panic in Courfeyrac’s voice and that’s pretty inauspicious. “Combeferre goes with me because we’ve always taken the same room since kindergarten. Marius and Cosette obviously go together because they must have a lot of sex that they’ve been deprived of due to exhausting political activity in Paris.” Glare at Enjolras which is completely unfair because Courfeyrac is one of the most passionate when it comes to political activity. “Jehan goes with Bahorel because Bahorel _loves_ Romantic poetry, and Eponine with Feuilly because these two are the sensible ones and at the same time they somehow manage to scare people. And,” he flares his arms dramatically, “the hotel guy tried so hard to find a three bed room for Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta because our ménage-à-trois is inseperable! And that leaves us…”

“I sincerely hope,” Grantaire grunts, “for your own fucking good, that I have a hotel room all on my own.”

Courfeyrac looks at Jehan. Jehan looks at Eponine. Eponine looks at Musichetta who looks at Joly who bursts into a hysteric fit of allergic cough ‘that will go away when I go swimming’. Feuilly is solely devoted in rolling a cigarette, and Combeferre is way too absorbed by his interesting book, which means that the two little shits have no immediate plans in assisting Courfeyrac and his _honest mistake._

“No offence R, but you’re pretty much broke,” Jehan examines his nails before raising his eyes at his friend. “We wouldn’t have you pay for a hotel room all on your own…”

“And you know how these fares have jolted up to the fricking sky lately…”

“We’re all students so practically it’s impossible for us to afford single rooms…”

“And working men…”

“And working men.”

“And MOTHERFUCKING _WOMEN_!”

“Yeah, and women.”

Enjolras, who had never agreed to the whole holiday thing and had very much preferred to stay behind in the burning Paris, clinging on his air conditioning and the fan Feuilly gave him for his birthday – the few luxuries that he allowed to penetrate his ascetic life, considering that the heat could practically kill him – to have some progress with the tons of activist and university work that they were leaving behind. He had tried to encourage his friends to do so, quite furiously, that was. The people needed their fight more than they needed a week of vacation on a Greek island (Revolution before funky Hawaiian swimming trunks). Still, Combeferre confiscated his laptop and Courfeyrac blackmailed him into this with childhood photos, and it was his dignity being threatened here, otherwise he would have easily coped with the hardships and stayed behind just to show them, but the heat is truly killing him so he’s ended up in some boat rowing in the middle of the Aegean, trying to be grumpy for the rest of the trip.

 _Trying_ up to that point. Apparently now it’s all coming natural, because _what made Courfeyrac think that it would be okay to put him in the same room with…_

“This is tyranny!” Enjolras growls, glaring them all, the complete picture of righteous fury. “No one cared for our consent, this is against the chart of human rights, this is obscene!”

“Actually, the whole process flowed pretty democratically, Enjolras,” Combeferre tiredly raises his eyes from his book. "We all came together and discussed with whom it would be more convenient to cohabitate with for a week, considering romantic dynamics or lack thereof, sleeping habits, and potential of amelioration in a relationship. You just downright refused to participate in our plans, declaring that the people didn’t martyr themselves for our right to go to the beach.”

“Potential of amelioration…” Enjolras gasps incredulously, staring all around his friends with exasperation and ignoring Combeferre’s last logical addition. “Are you fucking serious?”

He turns around to find Grantaire, sprawled up on a chair against Eponine’s lap, looking perfectly calm, if not slightly bored, seemingly oblivious to the horror that lies before them both. Enjolras is feeling perfectly frustrated. The hate they’ve always seemed to share is mutual, to the point that he’d at least expected some kind of support from the other man. But when had Grantaire assisted him, to do it now? “What do you have to say about this?”

“What is there to say, Apollo?” Grantaire raises his beer can to a lazy toast, one of those horrible crooked half-smirks spread over his lips. “We can’t always get what we want, can we? And even when we get it it’s pretty much fucked up. Seems to me we’re stuck together.”

Enjolras really can’t deal with Grantaire's ambiguity right now. His bitter tone together with Combeferre’s warning glare make him feel a little bad. It wasn’t his motive to hurt anyone’s feelings, even though Grantaire hardly ever had a problem in making him feel like a delusional idiot (not that he’d ever achieved that, but still, Grantaire and him would never fit). “Just…” he heaves a sigh, blood pounding between his meninges. “What on earth made you assume that our sleeping habits were in any way compatible?”

Jehan shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know, love. You never sleep because you always have work to do. Grantaire never sleeps when there is Greek nightlife. Grantaire will probably pass out in the beach in the early morning hours and you’ll stay in your room with your precious laptop until you die a heroic caffeine-induced Balzac-worthy death.”

Jehan receives a punch on his arm and Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow at Enjolras, who thinks that no one in neon V-necks and jelly flip flops has the right to raise his eyebrow (that goes for both Jehan and Courfeyrac). “If you think you get to spend your holiday with your laptop, _mon Enj_ , something's wrong in that pretty head of yours,” Courfeyrac snorts sarcastically, and at this point Enjolras seriously considers, as much as he loves his best friend, luring him to the deck of the boat and throwing him in the high seas.

Apparently it’s Jehan who lures Courfeyrac to the deck, and they both end up staring at the way the bridge rips the wild waves, pretending they’re mermaids or, even better, Caspar David Friedrich’s ‘Wanderers’, while Jehan recites Byronic verse about Greece.

And at that point they have to put an end to their conversation because Grantaire goes to get a beer and Bahorel is shouting out loud about the prices of food in that pretentious boat and Joly has to go fetch Marius a bag for seasickness.

When they arrive at the port and disembark, Enjolras almost has an apoplexy. He’d left Paris to survive the heat, and no one had warned him about the 38° degrees he was about to be hit with, not to mention the noise and shouting voices and…

He’d never been in a Greek island before, and he has to admit that it’s kind of breathtaking.

They find the small hotel group easily enough. They’d searched for the cheapest possible rooms but they’re cute enough as long as they have a double bed and a shower, only Enjolras will not possibly share a double bed with a drunk man on a Greek island, thank you very much, so when everyone goes to get assorted in their rooms, he goes to the beach instead, and declares he’ll sit grumpily on the sand for the rest of the day.

It will take a while for him to admit that the hot sand feels quite freeing between his toes, that the air tastes clean and fills his lungs with long-treasured tranquillity and, despite the droplets of sweat that flow from his temple and make his trunks stick on his thighs, it’s quite pleasing to be away from all responsibilities, even though he won’t quite stop thinking about them.

“Already naked I see, Apollo?” a familiar, mocking voice snaps him back into reality, and his insides already feel upset from the additional heat the man who sits on the sand next to him is radiating. “Couldn’t wait for us?”

Enjolras turns to look at Grantaire, who’ still clad in his olive t-shirt and khaki shorts. He never had the chance to assess his appearance from so close, since appearance is not a thing that matters in first place, but something odd jolts in his chest at all those new, different details. The scruff on Grantaire’s rough cheeks, how chapped his thin, pale lips are, the dark circles surrounding his eyes even though the man probably spends half his life sleeping, _eyes that are so blue like the whole fucking sea is reflected inside them._

“Did you see our room?” Enjolras pouts, yet a bit softened.

“Yeah, little tacky blue ships on the wall and all. It’s pretty comfy. As Jehan said, I’ll probably pass out in the sand, so you have a double bed all on your own.”

Enjolras suddenly feels bad for being so harsh on Grantaire. After all, it wasn’t his fault that they’re stuck together. “You can have the bed. I mean, as Jehan very astutely pointed out, I’ll have to catch up with some work into the night.”

“You’re going to kill yourself, Apollo.”

“Speaks the man planning to drink the Aegean in alcohol,” snorts Enjolras.

Grantaire doesn’t reply. A faint, bitter smile remains on his face. “Come on,” he produces a bottle of sunscreen from his pocket. “You’ll turn into a lobster.”

Enjolras huffs. “I don’t burn, let me be.”

“Joly made me come here,” Grantaire shrugs his shoulders.

“Why didn’t Joly come himself?”

“Too busy burying Bossuet into the sand,” Grantaire half chuckles. “If I don’t accomplish my quest, Joly will have my booze confiscated.”

“Tempting enough,” Enjolras snorts. “Maybe worth turning into a lobster for.” Nevertheless, he’s not as stubborn as to not take the sunscreen from Grantaire’s hand and start applying all over his face which is already roasting. “Help me with my back?” he asks without putting much thought into it, he just doesn’t want Joly to chase him, threatening him with something, no doubt, inflatable.

Grantaire seems quite taken aback and Enjolras doesn’t really know what’s taking him so long. “Uh, sure,” he finally murmurs, squirting some cream into his palms and rubbing them together before…

_Ah_

So that’s what it was all about.  

The truth is that there are things that Enjolras still cannot explain. Like the reason Grantaire’s hands always distracted him so much even though he never shared any other kind of connection with the man. But his hands… well, there was something about his hands, something so real that it was almost inhuman. Grantaire was an artist and, despite his loathing for his cynical opinions, Enjolras had always admired the talent he supposed Grantaire possessed – he had never allowed him anywhere near his art. Now, Enjolras knew absolutely nothing of art, but one thing: Grantaire’s hands had something artistic in them. Paint stained and callused most of the time, opening a bottle or handling Feuilly the notes, kneading into Eponine’s skin when she had a stiff shoulder – and how _wrong_ it had felt for Enjolras to witness this, - deftly braiding Jehan’s hair and that time, oh there was that time when he merely wanted to annoy Enjolras, so he took a seat at the piano in the backroom of the Musain and his fingers danced over the keys and _that music…_

So Enjolras most definitely does not have a thing for Grantaire’s hands, but now they’re kneading on shoulders he hadn’t realized they were prickly and sore, the sunscreen feeling cool and relieving against his hot skin, fingers digging deep, and Enjolras has a feeling that this shouldn’t be happening because it must definitely be wrong for obnoxious, loud Grantaire to be so gentle, and for him to feel so relaxed…

“Ready, your mightiness,” Grantaire mutters, waking him from his sun-imposed slumber, and he feels the other man taking his magical hands away from his skin and stepping up on the sand.

“R, come for a game?” they hear Bahorel’s voice inviting them for a game of rackets, and Enjolras almost instinctively raises his eyes, considering thanking Grantaire for his help but being left there gaping instead.

Grantaire has taken off his shirt, and Enjolras might have already gotten a sunstroke because he’s feeling dizzy, Grantaire’s body is covered in a golden sheen of sweat, his chest looks so warm and his arms so strong, and Enjolras wants to nuzzle his face in the hollow between his shoulder blades…

He gulps as Grantaire starts running to his shouting friends, watching the curves and angles of his legs as they fall on the sand, and at that moment, Enjolras knows that he’s never been more fucked up in his entire life.

That, until Bossuet and Courfeyrac attack him with a water gun.

And it is a truth universally acknowledged, that Enjolras shall not allow the attacking forces to prevail upon his sand barricade.

*

Musichetta is the conqueror of the sea on her inflatable turtle. Bossuet had assigned himself her royal turtle chauffer. Joly is chasing everyone on the beach with a bottle of sunscreen. They’ll end up looking like white cream nougats.

Marius is held hostage by Cosette. She’s giggling and applying sunscreen on his shoulders. He’s so red that his freckles have practically vanished.

Jehan is scribbling words into a notebook. He’s under a parasol in a giant poncho caftan, occasionally staring at the sea with a longing expression while Courfeyrac stares at him just as longingly, until a tiny ball finds him on the head, so he turns around and starts grading passing-by butts with Cosette instead.

To say that the entire beach has its eyes turned upon Bahorel, his tattooed biceps and his obscene neon trunks would be an understatement, but Grantaire can only feel relieved that he hasn’t yet gotten into a fight at the coffee queue. As for Musichetta, she’s climbed up on Feuilly’s shoulders and soon enough Courfeyrac looks rather satisfied, if not a bit choking, with Jean Prouvaire’s thighs around his neck, as the four of them fight for supremacy over the seven seas. The verdict of the battle still seems rather ambiguous, until Combeferre bursts into the sea with a murderous Eponine on his shoulders, and they finally have a winner as they fall and drown into the water.

Grantaire is feeling quite out of his depth. Everyone seems to have abandoned the game, drooling over each other and that’s merely boring. Grantaire has no on to drool over because it simply doesn’t work that way.

He watches from a distance, the way the sun shimmers in Enjolras’ soft curls, the way the sunrays play with his pale skin, the soft flush starting to spread on his neck and shoulders, the marble skin of his God sprawled over the sun and Grantaire can’t take it anymore. His throat is dry and his head is spinning and he needs a drink, like yesterday.

He finds a beer in the canteen and downs it alone, the waves licking his toes in an almost soothing manner. He takes a deep, salty breath, standing over the seafoam with his hands on his waist, getting ready to dive.

“You can’t drink alcohol before you fall in the sea,” he hears a voice that takes his breath away, dangerously close to him, so much that he feels hot breath brushing on his neck.

“Where’s your scientific proof, Apollo?” he asks hoarsely.

“Here,” Enjolras points point at Combeferre.

Grantaire snorts. “ _Here,_ is currently busy educating Eponine on all 712 fish species of the Mediterranean, amongst, um, other things.”

“Why do you need scientific proof to not kill yourself, Grantaire?”

“Because it seems like too much effort to keep a cynic alive, don’t you think, Enjolras?”

“You’ll get pissed drunk and then you’ll drown.”

“Art _floats._ ”

“Oh does it.”

“Oh it does.” Grantaire raises a sarcastic eyebrow. “Can you _even_ swim, Apollo?”

“Don’t call me that!” snaps Enjolras. “Of _course_ I can swim!”

“No, because if you want to martyr yourself for the equality amongst seahorses…”

“ _I know how to swim,_ ” hisses Enjolras. Grantaire just snorts.

“Then why have you stayed out of the water all this time?”

“Because we’re at the bloody _Cyclades_? Has it occurred to you that the water might be freezing cold?”

“At the Cyclades,” Grantaire quirks another eyebrow.

“Are you mocking me?”

“I, you? I would never!”

Enjolras narrows his eyes and ceases Grantaire and his shocked, solemn expression. Before he’s able to blink, cold water is splashed all over him.

“Don’t you fucking…!”

More water is splashed between them, feet kick, hands drag each other in the sea, screams are emitted and Enjolras tackles Grantaire down to the salty bottom.

“You,” he growls, “shall have war!”

Grantaire is more than eager to accept the invitation.

*

Jehan is sunbathing. Atop of Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac is sunbathing. Tangled together. It’s hot. Their skin is. Jehan tans, that’s a new one. His freckles come out. Courfeyrac kisses them all.

Combeferre and Eponine are covered in ice cream. Their noses are. And their chins. And the bigger part of their thighs. Combeferre’s swimming trunks are ridiculous anyway. They have little trains on them

Bahorel tackles Feuilly on the sand.

Feuilly tackles Bahorel on the sand.

Musichetta tackles them both.

Joly applies sunscreen on Bossuet’s bald head. It shines gloriously in the sun. A jellyfish attacks him. _Just my luck._

Marius is building sandcastles. All the kiddies are gaping in awe. A three year old asks Cosette if she’s a princess. A five year old asks if he can have her straw hat. A seven year old proposes to her.

“Bahorel you’ve just had four sandwiches, you _can’t_ possibly get into the water and this is a very bad hour for skin cancer Feuilly do you wish to die young?!”

Marius is intimidated.

*

Enjolras makes it hard for him to breathe. Maybe he's not Apollo. Maybe he's some sort of a murderous sea creature. A merman. Or a mythological neried.

Grantaire holds his breath as he watches him, sprawled over the sand, just a few droplets of water away from him. His damp, highlighted hair is already drying in perfect tendrils, salt glimmering on the tanned skin of his shoulders and the overdose of watermelon sunscreen smelling in the air making him a bit lightheaded. Sand is hugging the soft curves of his ankles and feet and Grantaire wants to take all of him, yet he knows he never will. It's okay, though. They're okay. He needs nothing more. Apollo is here and the clean, endless sea is glimmering like a million diamonds, like Enjolras' shoulders, _oh how he wants to kiss him..._

It's beyond his control, really, how his lips brush against the salty fair hair on the burning skin of Enjolras' nape. He exhales sharply against his neck, feeling his pulse pounding beneath his mouth.

Enjolras turns around.

There are tiny freckles on his nose and salt tangled in his thick, golden lashes. His lips are half parted, soft and fresh like watermelon, and then they're brushing against his own and the world stops turning. It's just the tender sound of the waves and tongues, sliding together wet and lazy, a damp palm resting cool on the curve of his waist.

They lose themselves like that for a few minutes, tasting all of each other thirstily. It's sunny but Grantaire is seeing stars, and they're all turquoise.

*

They pay their bets on the paper tablecloth of the seaside taverna. 

Enjolras and Grantaire are mer-making out on some rock and Combeferre is rich.

Joly is laughing and Bossuet is close to tears: he's lost the bet and he's paying for their meal.

Marius is burnt like a lobster despite the inordinate amounts of sunscreen squirted over and rubbed upon him, 

Courfeyrac is taking selfies with his obscene mirror Ray-Bans and Feuilly is trying to hold conversation with his mouth full of calamari. Jehan and Bahorel are spitting watermelon seeds at each other. The cheerful waiter treats them more ouzo to celebrate the snogging of their friends. They have to drink it before Grantaire notices.

This is a challenge and they're willing to take it.

*

“Ow this fucking _hurts_!”

“Your skin is peeling that’s why it’s fucking hurts!”

“Can’t you be a bit gentler?”

“You should actually be thankful that I’m rubbing after sun cream on your old stubborn self just because you decided to sit half-naked on the beach to protest for putting your stuck up ass in the same room with me. I should be fucking offended!”

Enjolras makes an attempt to roll his head on the pillow to turn his red burnt aflame face towards Grantaire. His expression is somewhat softened though his expression will never be. “I thought you hated being in the same room with me.”

Grantaire makes a choking sound and, instead of giving a decent reply, continues massaging Enjolras’ shoulders.

“I really hated being in the same room with you,” Enjolras continues, “because I was scared by how much I wanted it…”

“Yeah this is all so touching,” hums Grantaire sarcastically, trying to hide a faint smile spread upon his lips.

“And I like your hands… I mean, I like that you put aftersun cream on me.”

“Aw that’s so cute…”

“Yes. And… and I really like kissing you.”

“Yeah, I usually do that to people.”

Enjolras rolls half his body up with an alarmed expression, hissing at the pain of his burnt skin touching the sheets. “Do you _usually_ kiss other people?”

“Shut up, you dork,” murmurs Grantaire, grinning widely, pressing his lips against Enjolras’ to silence him. Enjolras leans into the kiss with his usual conviction, throwing his fingers in Grantaire’s tousled curls. They roll over the mattress, kissing lazily, legs tangled together and hands exploring cool skin, determined to memorize every inch of it.

They fall asleep wrapped around each other on the sweaty sheets, in the sweet, late hours of the afternoon. Sun is peeking through the transparent curtains, curving around their bodies and sharing their peaceful slumber.

When Enjolras wakes up, groggy and confused, the space next to him in bed still feels warm. He drags his half-naked body to the balcony of the little hotel room, petulantly rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand. Grantaire is there, only in his boxers, all tanned with his dark hair drying up in curls and dripping on his tattooed shoulders after his shower. Grantaire turns around and smiles to him that same crooked grin Enjolras had always found mocking. There is fresh coffee on the small wooden table, and Enjolras wonders how he hadn’t always found Grantaire this beautiful. Or maybe he had, and was indeed too self-absorbed to notice how in love he was.

“You sleep like a fucking octopus, do you know that?”

“Mhmm, Courfeyrac might have mentioned something,” Enjolras blushes sleepily, burying his face in the crook of Grantaire’s neck.

“Here, have your caffeine so that you can be fearsome again,” Grantaire murmurs, and they both sit on the wooden chairs, tangling their ankles together.

The sun is setting behind the tranquil, glimmering sea, spreading its rose and orange wings over the sky. Jehan and Courfeyrac are down at the beach, wrapped in some weird colorful towel. Grantaire instinctively tries to conceal the fact that they’ve slept together, but Enjolras seems reluctant to hide anything, and pulls Grantaire for a coffee kiss, earning cheering whistles.

They all gather at the beach around a bonfire, roasting souvlaki and marshmallows. Jehan and Musichetta braid everybody’s hair with beads and Enjolras attempts to start a political discussion at the beach but he ends up swooning – alongside everyone else – at Grantaire and his guitar. Eponine and Combeferre are sharing a blanket and almost everyone pretends they’re not drooling romantics looking at the stars but they pretty much are because the stars have never shone more bright and, whoever has been unhooking them and placing them in their eyes, is doing a pretty good damn job.


End file.
